


You Don't Make Friends With Salad

by omgbubblesomg



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Food Service, Angst, Blow Jobs, Come Swallowing, I hope you're using Pledge, Incest, Kitchen Sex, M/M, Past Relationship(s), Seriously Sam this is a kitchen, Stanford Era, Unhygeneic af
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-04
Updated: 2016-12-04
Packaged: 2018-09-06 09:28:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8744773
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/omgbubblesomg/pseuds/omgbubblesomg
Summary: “I’mma stop you right there -” Dean said loudly, all bravado, but Sam squeezed gently and the protest died.“When was the last time you were with someone who took the time to make it good?”“God, Sam.” His head tipped backward. “We can’t.”“We can,” he countered. “We have to.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> In which Sam needs to touch, and Dean needs to be touched, but the result is far less therapeutic than they had hoped.

“Ugh, it’s that creepy guy again. Doesn’t he have his own kitchen?” Marissa turned to the figure at the door. “WE’RE CLOSED!” she yelled at him through the glass. He held a few soggy notes up. It was raining heavily outside. Marissa was unswayed. “CLOSED!” she reiterated, pointing at the sign.

“It’s okay,” Sam sighed, waving his manager away. “You head home and I’ll deal with him.”

He waited for the sound of the back door closing before he opened the front one to admit the tall, dripping man, who immediately shook the water off of himself and onto the floors Sam had just mopped.

“Heya, Sammy,” he said, clapping Sam on the back in a parody of affection.

“It’s Sam,” he muttered noncommittally. Dean didn’t hear him, or at least he pretended not to. Raindrops had caught on his eyelashes. Sam blinked and looked away.

It went like this every time. Sam would be just about to get his life back on track, just about ready to forget dad and hunting and everything else, and then _wham_. Dean would show up out of nowhere and derail him again. Never with any warning, and never for longer than a week. He must be working hunts in the area, since he came and left so quickly, but he never mentioned it and Sam never asked.

“We’re closed, Dean.”

“You can’t swing me something real quick? Come on, you wouldn’t let me starve, would you?”

“Dean, you have to stop showing up here when I’m working.”

Dean snorted as he eyed the plastic chairs and garish napkins on the shitty tables. “You call this working?”

“It’s a _real_  job, Dean. I get real money for working real hours and no one ever tries to throw me into a wall or shove ectoplasm down my throat or pull my spinal cord out through my nose.”

“Yeah, all right, hot shot. You made your point clear when you slammed the door on your way out.”

“Dad shut that door, Dean, not me.”

It was an old argument, and a ferocious one. Sam decided to cut it short early.

“Look, I can put something together in the kitchen but only if you promise to stop showing up here unannounced. I’m trying to pay rent, man.”

Dean grinned wolfishly. “Knew you’d pull through for me, little brother.” Sam rolled his eyes and walked to the back.

“You’re getting a fucking salad though. I am not letting you eat another burger.”

Dean wrinkled his nose. “I’m not touching your rabbit food,” he complained. “And I order sandwiches. They’re healthy. It says so right here on your logo. _Healthy, fresh and delicious_.” He waved one of the napkins at Sam.

“That’s referring to the fucking salads, jerk. The only thing you order is a chunk of cholesterol in between two slabs of gluten.”

“What’s wrong with gluten?” Dean asked, affronted. Sam doubted he knew what gluten was.

“Nothing’s wrong with anything, as long as you eat it in moderation. I’m guessing the rest of your diet doesn’t include the fruit and veg you’re determined to not eat here?”

Dean looked uncomfortable, but didn’t answer. He ran a hand through his wet hair, which stuck up in blonde spikes. Sam had to look away again.

“Look, just promise you’ll try and take care of yourself a bit better, okay?” Sam pulled some vegetables out of the cold room while Dean waited at the door. “One day you’re going to need more than just your training to stay alive.”

“Would be easier with a partner out there,” Dean muttered. Sam ignored the familiar guilt that threatened the muscles of his throat. Dean’s breath was coming out in plumes in the frigid air.

“Dad won’t watch out for your health, Dean. Only you can do that. Don’t let a vamp get the drop on you just because you refuse to eat anything green.”

“Like you even care.”

Sam wanted to tell him about his morning ritual, checking every newspaper for signs of a suspicious death. Not because he was looking for hunts, but because he knew one day it would be Dean’s face on the cover. The remains of his body washed up on some distant shore. He dreamt of seeing him on a mortician’s table, charred black or missing limbs or, even worse, looking exactly the same but frozen in death. Sam would wake up sweating and would see that face for days. Pale and cold, with no pulse to pump blood into the cheeks and lips.

He could hear Dean’s breath behind him and he knew he would be having that dream again tonight. He sighed heavily and tossed some tomatoes onto the kitchen table, slamming the cooler door closed behind him. He also collected a bottle of water which he threw at Dean.

“Drink that,” he ordered, while he dumped lettuce into a plastic container.

“Yes, _Mum_.”

“And make sure you drink at least two bottles a day, and more if you’re having alcohol.”

“Jeez, I just came for a meal, not a guilt trip.” But he upended the bottle anyway. Sam took the discreet moment to give his brother a once-over. There was a new scar on the back of his hand, and a bruise under one ear that looked recent.

“Do you have a girlfriend?” he asked suddenly.

To his credit, Dean only spluttered slightly. “A _what_?” He saw the direction of Sam’s gaze and touched the bruise on his neck. “What, this thing?” He smirked. “Sure, I got this from Susan yesterday. She liked it rough.” Sam tried not to react, but Dean must have seen something in his face. “She’s also been dead 23 years,” he clarified. “Gave me this little keepsake before I could burn the bones.” He looked at Sam with an unreadable expression. “Why do you want to know if I have a girlfriend?”

Sam hoped the heat on his cheeks wasn’t visible. He added cucumber and olives to the salad.

“It’s important to have healthy relationships, too,” he covered.

“Oh, I get all the _relationships_  I need, thanks.”

“I don’t mean the waitresses and bartenders, Dean. You need someone who knows you. Someone you can talk to.”

“Bit hard in this line of work, Samantha.”

Sam snapped the lid onto the plastic container and handed it over. When Dean reached out he stepped forward, closing the distance between them until they were nose to nose.

“You need someone who can take care of you, Dean.”

Dean tried to wriggle away, but Sam pressed closer, pushing him back against the cooler door. He dropped a hand down and palmed Dean slowly. Casually.

“I’mma stop you right there -” Dean said loudly, all bravado, but Sam squeezed gently and the protest died.

“When was the last time you were with someone who took the time to make it good?”

“ _God,_ Sam.” His head tipped backward naturally. “We can’t.”

“We can,” he countered. “We have to.” He licked a stripe up Dean’s neck. “There’s no one else. No one who knows you. Not like I do.”

Dean cursed as Sam’s fingers grazed lower, cupping his balls through the denim. Sam used his other hand to trace the line of one collarbone where it disappeared beneath Dean’s shirt. He would dream of that bone severed, tonight. He would see the plaid shirt drenched in blood. He closed his eyes and focused on his hands. Dean was warm, and whole, and safe.

"I swore, Sammy. Swore I wouldn’t touch you again.”

“Did you ever think about what I wanted?” Sam whispered back. “The kind of relationship I needed too?”

“You left,” Dean gasped, and there it was. The words hung between them as Sam ghosted against the hard heat in his brother’s pants. “You left me.” And then Dean’s hands were on his shoulders, pressing him down. Sam fell to his knees, unresisting, and opened his mouth as Dean ripped at his fly.

The first taste was horrid. Sweaty. Dean pushed in too hard, too fast, and Sam choked around him, but they both relaxed at the feel of the other and Sam could smell the rain on Dean’s skin where it had soaked through his clothes.

“Dammit, Sam," Dean growled, “I just wanted to take care of you.” He pushed in again, gentler this time, and Sam tucked his tongue in against the familiar length. His hands were resting on Dean’s thighs, and he kneaded the muscle with fingertips that ached for skin instead of denim. He skimmed his palms higher to lace around the base of Dean’s cock. A year ago his hands were too rough for this - calloused and hard - but now Dean moaned louder, arching into him.

“ _Fuck_ , Sam. Missed you so much. Take it, take it, suck me.” A hair came loose from Sam’s scalp underneath Dean’s tightening fingers. “ _God_ , what you do to me. _Aah!_ ” His sentences became fragmented, and Sam lapped at him, barely stopping to breath. He focused on the breathy moans and aborted expletives. 

 _Give them to me_ , he demanded silently. _Give me those sounds. Make them loud enough to remember. Make them stronger than nightmares. Give them to me_.

Dean came with a cry. He always did. His whole body scrunched forward as though the force of his orgasm was being pulled directly from his spine. Sam let it fall on his lips and tongue, and it was overly salty but it was warm, too, and he knew he would feel it there long after the taste had washed away.

Dean’s hands rested gently on Sam’s head, and they’re eyes met. _Don’t say it_ , a part of him begged, but there was another part, equally strong, that begged for the words.

“Come home,” Dean whispered, and Sam looked away. The salad lay forgotten on the floor and he picked it up.

“Call ahead next time you’re visiting,” he intoned, handing the container up. He didn’t look back as he felt Dean step away. He didn’t even get off his knees until he heard the front door slam shut.

He retrieved the mop and surface cleaner, preparing to erase the memory of Dean from the kitchen.

**Author's Note:**

> So the actual quote I was given for this fill was: 
> 
> ‘As an employee, I shouldn’t be saying this, but it is NOT nutritionally acceptable to eat here every day. Drop by after my shift ends and I’ll cook you some real food’
> 
> But then I went ahead and set it in the Stanford era and all of The Winchester EmotionsTM came out to play.


End file.
